


Just a Work Engagement

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (Radio)
Genre: Anal Sex, And probably a bit kinky, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is very popular with demons, Buffet in Hell, Coming Untouched, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley likes to set up rakes and then step on them, Existing Relationship, Hell is one interminable office party, Hell knows about the Arrangement, Lap Sex, M/M, Not that he is inclined to say so directly, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Crowley (Good Omens), Radio Aziraphale is the campest and bitchiest Crowley, Radio Crowley is the sexiest and coolest Crowley, The Radio boys are the most married Ineffable Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27792289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: "I said I'd bring you," he said casually.There was a long silence. Aziraphale's expression didn't change so much as gently calcify. Then, very quietly, he said, "Could you repeat that, please?""Come on, Aziraphale. I've spent years talking you up in my reports, cleverest and most subtle of angels, be an asset to us all if you defected, and in the meantime feeding me valuable information. And then all the Armageddon business... Well, they took notice. They want to meet you.""Piffle. I couldn't possibly attend a function in Hell."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 190
Collections: Heart Attack Exchange 2020





	Just a Work Engagement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anticyclone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticyclone/gifts).



> The prompt for one of them bringing the other as a plus-one to a work event was just too much for me. Thank you for requesting the most married of the ineffable husbands, and I very much hope you enjoy!
> 
> All demon's names and general concepts taken from traditional demonologies.

The shop door's bell tinkled cheerfully behind Crowley. He was vaguely surprised to find it open, not that it would have mattered to him, and no fluttering, irritable claim to be closed. . There was even a customer there, heading with what looked like purchasing intent towards a glass display case with seventeenth century Bible in it, opened to display the typographical error in Ruth 3:15. Not that it was a particularly interesting error, just a misgendering, but the angel was nothing if not a completist.

Crowley slithered around the shelves and parked himself against the counter. He stretched his long legs out, coincidentally blocking the customer's way, and gave him his silkiest smile. His evening had just become more interesting. Interfering with the bookshop's customers was a courtesy he extended on many an afternoon when he had nothing much to do, but he had a special interest in this one. An MP with a wife, old money, four children and an Archbishop as a father in law, who had come to prominence on a platform of family values. For some time now, Crowley had been arranging for anonymous donations and politely worded requests in brown paper envelopes to arrive on the man's toilet floor, testing his acquiescence before the big one. He was getting cagey lately, and the last request was yet to be responded to. Crowley had been wondering if it was time to shift gears and start replacing the anonymous campaign donations with photos of the MP and his personal assistant. It had taken a fair amount of organisation and skill to plant the young woman there, and it was key to Crowley's long-term plans that this man stayed obedient.

"Could you move your feet, please, young man?" the MP asked impatiently, shifting from one foot to the other. He returned Crowley's smile, though. No good giving a member of the public stories to tell.

"Not unless you take me out to dinner. I warn you, I have expensive tastes. But you'd know about that. That Bible, for example. Nice and big, isn't it? Good shape for a book from 1611. Great size, too. Look great in the background in the interview you have planned on Thursday. Not very accurate, but you know all about picking and choosing between commandments already. What are you willing to do to buy it?" He flickered his tongue over his lower lip.

The customer frowned at him. "Is this some kind of a joke?" He turned to to the bookshop owner, who was running a feather duster over the shelves behind him, for help. "Is this how you usually treat prospective customers?"

"Don't look at _me,_ " Aziraphale said. "I have no authority over him whatsoever. He's just a kind of... pet. I should give him what he wants if I were you, I've found it's quicker. He's quite fond of _cuisses de grenouille_. I suppose some things are inherent to his nature." He paused for a moment and huffed a delicate puff of air through flared nostrils. "I should invest more in wine for him than for your young gentleman." He managed to infuse more disdain and moral condemnation into the words _your young lady_ than he ever did when referring to actual demons. "He's very particular."

The MP looked between them as if trying to figure out what the punchline was. Aziraphale continued dusting, a fruitless task if there ever was one, and Crowley let his tongue flicker out and touch his lower lip. The MP considered, and then decided he didn't want the Bible after all."It's hardly likely to be a genuine seventeenth century Bible in any case. Only a madman would leave one out in the light like that in any case."

Aziraphale stiffened. Calling the atmosphere in the bookshop light was a bit flattering, in any case, Aziraphale believing clean windows only encouraged people to look in and take an unhealthy interest in his stock, but suggesting he had _replica books_ was a worse sin than any the Bible itself held. "I've just recalled that the shop is closed. If you would be so kind?"

The MP turned on his heel, muttering under his breath that he would be back.

"Not if I can help it," Aziraphale sniffed, as the door closed and locked itself behind him. "What an unpleasant man."

"I'd offer to curse him for you, but that's redundant given the plans I have in mind for him. _Pet._ Don't care at all about my dignity, do you? And the frogs' legs, that was a nasty swipe."

The corner of Aziraphale's mouth turned up a charming smidgen, or at least Crowley thought it charming, although it was best not to swell the angel's head too much by saying so. In any case, he suspected Aziraphale knew quite well how Crowley felt about his mouth. "You do enjoy them."

"Yeah, but not because I'm a snake. What were you doing open anyway?" Crowley lolled back even further against the counter, so that he was nearly horizontal. "Don't see many bookshops open on a Sunday evening."

"One likes to keep one's customers on their toes. Adds interest to their lives."

"Of course. It would be dull if they could rely on regular opening hours." Crowley gestured at the small, ancient tv set behind the counter, turning it on. "Ah, _Songs of Praise._ Excellent. That should be good for a laugh."

Aziraphale gave him a poisonous look over his spectacles, but didn't say anything. Crowley knew Aziraphale's intense loathing for religious programming, and also that the angel felt he couldn't, on principle, object to having it on, especially if Crowley restrained himself from jeering too loudly or laughing too uproariously.

Crowley requisitioned the comfy chair Aziraphale kept behind the counter and lounged back contentedly, anticipating a pleasant evening of savouring the steadily rising level of irritation from the angel. Eventually, Aziraphale's patience would crack, he would make some cutting remark about the singing or the preaching or the fashion sense of the congregation, and they would both know Crowley had just won a point in a millennia-long game that neither of them admitted to playing. Crowley would graciously not acknowledge it except by taking Aziraphale out and buying him a slap-up meal, and perhaps offering some interesting temptation to sin, possibly in the restaurant loos. A perfect evening indeed, and no Armageddon looming over them to spoil things. It was a beautiful world.

There had been a lot of perfect evenings, lately. They both carried half-heartedly on with their work in a general kind of way, thus Crowley's friend the MP. Still, there had been a shared, silent agreement that a certain amount of slacking off was called for, as both their sides tried to figure out what to do after the whole embarrassing situation with the child in Tadfield. While neither demon nor angel had ever been known for their desperately keen attention to duty, there had been a lot more dinners out and a lot less competing to inspire the waiters to good or bad deeds lately. Crowley had spent more time at the bookshop more than his own flat, which said quite a lot seeing that Aziraphale was rarely there either. Not when there were plays to be seen, concerts to be attended, walks in the frankly spectacular autumn weather to be shared, restaurants to be experienced. Also, unspoken, there had been more fingers brushing together in public, more hands resting casually on the small of backs. More openly companions, and less vaguely plausible deniability about fraternising to gain an advantage.

He should have known it was too good to be true. The Bishop onscreen turned over a page of his sermon, looked up, and intoned, _Hello, Crowley. Busy?_ The tone implied that he had better not be if he knew what was good for him. _  
_

Crowley sighed. "Sorry, this one's for me. If you don't mind?"

"Of course not." Aziraphale gave a genial nod, and made his way into the backroom to give him and Hell some privacy together. He could always be counted on for his discretion.

"So, what's up? Dagon, is it?"

_Just checking in on you. Visiting your angel friend?_

"Yeah. You know how it is. Exchanging notes. All in the greater interests of advancing our Great Agenda. How can I help you?"

A human's mouth couldn't actually stretch into as long and toothy a grin as the Bishop managed to produce. Annoying bastard. Crowley already _knew_ this was an infernal communication. There was no need to act like Dagon was auditioning for some cheesy 1980s horror film.

_You could explain this. Taken by one of our agents in Barton-on-Sea. Kind of an instant painting, do you know how they work? Ingenious, humans._

The Bishop produced a Polaroid. It looked like a bloody honeymoon snap, at the seaside, of all places .They'd gone there a few days after the whole business in the airfield. Crowley had been indulgent, and while Hampshire had no night life to speak of, it was Aziraphale's kind of natural surroundings. High on survival, Crowley had even contemplated buying a house in the countryside, somewhere to retire to. It had been a long six thousand years. And oh, the picture was damning, or even worse, saving. They were in bathing trunks, and clearly had just broken a kiss. Aziraphale had looked like... well, Aziraphale, managing a vague aura of prissy fond geniality even after kissing a demon while both mostly naked, arms possessively around Crowley's waist. And Crowley was looking up at him with what was, despite the sunglasses, what looked like a shamelessly besotted and affectionate grin. It was hard to believe that any expression so completely uncool had ever lived on his chiseled features. 

He had probably just been laughing at some old fashioned stupidity of Aziraphale. It just _looked_ like he was nauseatingly happy and sappy. If he hadn't been wearing his sunglasses, Dagon would be able to see the cold cynical evil in his eyes.

He cleared his throat. "So? You have a problem with me seducing and corrupting an angel into being a double agent? Dagon, my friend. I'm the Great Seducer. It's one of my greatest accomplishments."

_You don't look like the one doing the seducing. In fact, you look like you're being corrupted instead. You're sure angelic influence hasn't been making you go a little soft?_

"Soft? Me? Look, Dagon, you know I always meet my quotas. You do the paperwork. And give me some credit. No angels have been seduced since the Watchers, and I have this one eating out of my hand. Completely in the thrall of sin. He's crazy about me. Absolutely nothing he wouldn't do for me. It's the scheme of the century."

_I'm glad to hear it. Still, perhaps you would benefit from some time in Hell remembering what the angels had done to their former brothers in arms, just because we started a teensy little war and rebellion. I get it, Crowley. You've been working hard, away from your friends and coworkers. Perhaps you need some time to remember where your priorities lie._

Crowley would rather be dissolved in holy water than return to Hell full time. Or heaven, for that matter. That was the whole point of the whole thing with the Antichrist that everyone was pointedly Not Mentioning. Hell and Heaven were the two most bloody boring places in existence, and he was not going to go down quietly. Or up.

So he summoned all his tooth-gleaming sincerity and spun the story like Rumpelstiltskin. It was _essential_ to make the angel think he loved him. How else would Aziraphale trust him with Heaven's secrets? Trust him, he was the Original Tempter, no way would he have fallen for an angel himself. Even if this one wasn't too bad, bit on the decadent side, went a bit native. ("Yeah, yeah, I know it looks like I did too, it's my _job_. Got to understand humans to ruin them.") The angel was perfectly under his claw, which he no longer had of course, cursed to crawling in the dust and so forth. Crazily obsessed with Crowley. A valuable asset, and protector against smiting by the other angels. Devoted. Compromised.

And then, like an idiot, he added: "You should see it for yourselves!"

* * *

When Aziraphale eventually returned, he arched an eyebrow at Crowley. The demon nodded, and went back to the show, which was thankfully full of preaching and not messages from Hell. Somehow all the amusement had gone from it, and Crowley found himself watching Aziraphale instead, fussing around his shop, pausing every so often to glare out the window at anyone who looked likely to invade his sanctuary. Ridiculous, really, like the persnickety, strange being the angel was. The deep kindness, the bitchiness and self-righteousness and really incredible pettiness at times combined with the sheer goodness that let him befriend the Enemy in Eden, the affection for humans in the abstract and deep annoyance with them in the specific. After nearly six thousand years of companionship, Crowley thought he _almost_ understood him, but not enough to wear off his fascination. Aziraphale was an unlikely snake charmer, but there it was.

There was something to be said for open secrets losing the second part of that equation, and after all, Adam had said they'd be all right.

He was no longer as sure as he had been that Adam could be trusted on that point.

"You know I don't like to pry, but is anything troubling you?" Aziraphale's tone was detached, and he was turned half away, not showing any particular concern. Giving Crowley a space to slide back into his hole without needing to spit venom in defense. "Everything all right down there?"

"Except for the big gaping space at the top where Himself used to be?" Crowley shrugged, a serpentine movement that went through his spine as much as his shoulders. "Going swimmingly, as far as I can tell. Under fresh and better management, the New Hell is there for YOU! Showing that personal touch."

"Oh dear."

"In fact, the Dark Council's holding a big company dinner. Touching base with all the ordinary people. I wasn't sure if I'd be invited, but since officially nothing happened, I'm apparently expected to turn up as usual."

"Mmm." Difficult to tell anything from a hum.

"Belphegor is doing the catering."

"Well, at least you won't go hungry." Perhaps there was some sympathy there, or perhaps it was amusement. Hard to judge, with Aziarphale's back turned to him. It was a _nice_ back, in an expensive merino sweater, as blue as the sky rarely was on this island, curling blonde ponytail touching his shoulders.

"It's apparently a chance to meet Berith, who is taking over as Prince of Wrath now that Satan is... you know." Crowly made a gesture intended to indicate dissolving into a puff of filial disbelief, which was wasted on Aziraphale's back. "Indisposed."

"Could be a worse choice, I suppose. Ran into Berith in Canaan a few times back in the day and could have done with my sword. He always was a bit tetchy, even as a Cherub."

"My angel, _you_ are tetchy. Berith is vituperous."

"Oh, how kind to find the right word for me. I knew there was a reason why I keep you around and disposed of all my thesauri."

He took a deep breath, arranged his tone into his most casual. "I've been instructed to bring a plus-one."

Aziraphale continued to rearrange his new _Biggles_ books according to a system only he understood. It certainly wasn't numerical. "Oh _dear_. Well, I'm sure you'll convince one of your human friends. I'm told you're reasonably attractive."

 _"Reasonably_?" Crowley's voice rose in pitch with outrage. "That's cold. I selected this corporation with you in mind, you know."

Aziraphale turned at last, eyebrows arched. "Vanity is a sin." His voice matched his eyebrows.

"I'm a demon." Crowley dropped his voice lower, let it reverberate with meaning.

"That's hardly any reason to encourage you." What _was_ encouraging was that lift at the corner of Aziraphale's lips again, bonding well for how things would go if Crowley expanded the discussion of sins from Wrath and Vanity to the more interesting one of Lust. Unfortunately, even with the promise of that smile, Crowley had other things on his mind.

"I said I'd bring you," he said casually.

There was a long silence. Aziraphale's expression didn't change so much as gently calcify. Then, very quietly, he said, "Could you repeat that, please?"

"Come on, Aziraphale. I've spent years talking you up in my reports, cleverest and most subtle of angels, be an asset to us all if you defected, and in the meantime feeding me valuable information. And then all the Armageddon business... Well, they took notice. They want to meet you."

"Piffle. I couldn't possibly attend a function in Hell." Aziraphale made a dismissive movement. "For pity's sake, do turn that dreadful racket off."

Crowley waved a hand at the television, and _O Love That Wilt Not Let me Go_ abruptly shut off. "Who else could I take?"

"Absolutely anyone else would be more suitable, I should think. What about one of your people? They should be honoured."

"I can't take a Satanist on a date to Hell, Aziraphale. Might as well sign them up to your side straight away. And that's before I get to the awkward question of what exactly happened to their Dark Lord, anyway."

"I'm certain you can find some wily way to resolve the question without me further compromising myself," Aziraphale said, in a tone that suggested the subject was closed. He went back to whatever he was doing with the _Biggles_ books. Some arcane book-worshipping ritual, possibly.

Crowley stretched his long limbs, considering his options, and decided on going to the kitchenette to make a pot of tea. It wasn't worth trying to move Azirphale in that kind of mood, at least without a lot of wine, good food and buttering up, and he needed to consider his strategy. Tempting an angel into Hell was an art. Well, he had thousands of years of experience at tempting this particular angel.

Urgency and desperation might yield creativity. He couldn't afford not to pull this one off. The last time he had attempted a _serious_ temptation on Aziraphale, the end of the world had been at stake. This time, it was just his own personal end. If he just told Aziraphale what... But that seemed unfair, somehow. They never pleaded with each other for their own sake. Temptation was all well and good and part of the game, but using whatever Aziraphale felt for him as a weapon seemed wrong. The fact that he was _capable_ of thinking of things as wrong was uncomfortable. But this was _Aziraphale._

If he could only convince Aziraphale, it would be fine. Aziraphale was a perceptive and intelligent being. He would hardly expect cloying affection in Hell, and he was smart enough to know that a doting angel would add to Crowley's cachet. And it was not like demons understood the subtleties of long term friendships. Just an actual angel being willing to go down there with Crowley would be enough, spun the right way. There was no need for Crowley to beg Aziraphale to act crazy about him. Besides, Aziraphale was a terrible actor.

Crowley was lost in thought, holding the tin of tea leaves in one hand, when warm arms wrapped around him from behind, along with a familiar scent of dust and paper and expensive cologne and, beneath it, the distinct ozone and petrichor scent of Heaven.

"This is important to you, isn't it, Crowley?"

"Yeah. A bit. Um." And then, with a rush of honesty quite apart from his concern for his own skin. "Want to show you off."

"Then I suppose I shall have to find a way to attend. How does one dress for Hell?"

Not trusting his own voice, Crowley lifted one of the hands from his waist and kissed it. Such a familiar hand. He had felt it run down his scales in Eden, both of them oddly unafraid at this encounter between enemies, had seen it wrapped around staves and medicines and so many goblets of wine and, lately, around books. And around other things, too. He kissed fingers he had seen weighed down with rings or roughened from work, now soft and cared for, the nails neatly filed and, yes, that was a thin coat of pink gloss over them, vain bastard. Crowley kissed each manicured fingertip, turned the hand over and kissed Aziraphale's palm that no fortune-teller could make sense of, in silent acknowledgement of everything that was and had been.

"My delight," Aziraphale said, the barely-breathed way he had first said in a desert, curled around each other, while Crowley played at feeding him grapes, and had pretended his heart hadn't beaten undemonically faster at the sound of the words. "How can I ever resist you?" He had said that then, too.

Crowley swallowed back the words that rose in his throat, choking him. He was about to return to Hell; it was entirely the wrong thing for damning--or saving--confessions. "Sssspoil-sssport," he hissed instead, letting his tongue lengthen and split. "Was looking forward to ssseducing you into it."

"My goodness. You still could. It's my duty to encourage Diligence. One of the seven heavenly virtues, after all." Aziraphale's free hand slid down to his hip and turned him into his embrace.

Crowley decided it was entirely the wrong moment to point out that Aziraphale had never bothered particularly with Diligence, not to mention Temperance, Humility or... no, it was entirely the wrong moment to raise the subject of Chastity. He met Aziraphale's mouth fiercely instead, his own spare hand going up to free the ribbon Aziraphale had been catching his curls back with since the eighteenth century. Vanity, of course, but nop need to charge him with that when Crowley needed to feel the satin curls between his fingers, greedy for the feel. He pushed deep into the sweet mouth, and felt Aziraphale suck on his tongue with the delicate precision with which he took all his pleasures, an explicit promise of more pleasures.

But Crowley had his own pride. He was seducing his angel into doing what he wanted, bless it, not gratefully taking what was offered. He pulled away, kissed an elegant jaw, folded his long legs under himself as he kissed down lower. He rubbed his face against expensive wool trousers, against the clear swollen heat beneath, and cautiously unhinged his jaw, listening with a certain amount of smugness to the hitched breath above him. Six millennia together and this hunger wasn't sated. Whether they had eleven years or six millennia more, this yearning wouldn't settle, not until...

There was a knocking on a grimy window. "Mr Ziraphale? I've come about my special order. The door seems to be locked."

Hidden behind the counter, Crowley weighed up carrying on, but Aziraphale said "Of course, Mrs Jones. How is the baby?

Crowley slid back up to his feet.He gave somewhat surprised young woman an airy flip of the hand, and left, with only a "Sssee you tomorrow at eight. Dress like an angel," tossed behind him.

* * *

He shouldn't have told Aziraphale to dress like an angel. It was nonsensical, in any case. Angels only wore clothes when they took on physical corporations in order to appear less alarming to humans, and there was no reason to dress in particular ways to appear to demons, who were of the same stock.

Aziraphale had decided to take the instruction to mean to appear in dazzling white. Crowley hadn't seen him dressed like that for many many years, and in any case then it had been merely linens, without quite so much in the way of lace cuffs and tiny pearl fastenings. The ponytail that had made him look like an ageing queen when paired with a jumper now looked like cascading sunlight caught back in a chain of silver, and he shone like a particularly complacent star.

Crowley swallowed, trying to moisten his suddenly dry throat. "Should've let me groom your wings. Your semiplumes are a mess."

"Quite," said Aziraphale, clearly not believing it for a moment. "You look dashing in all that leather. Good thing it's a crisp autumn. I wouldn't enjoy peeling all that off perspiring skin."

Crowley managed his best as a leering grin. "Getting ahead of yourself, aren't you?" He wildly thought that he could cancel the invitation and just drag Aziraphale upstairs, or against the door. Surely Berith and Beelzebub and all that lot wouldn't take it as an insult at all if he didn't take the angel down to Hell after promising. No way they'd consider reopening the deepest pits and filling them with horses. And Crowley.

Aziraphale extended his arm. "Shall we?"

Crowley spread his own wings, just as dazzlingly white as Aziraphale's, and they stepped forward together, the ground melting away before them and forming steps, deep, deep into the sulfurous, stinking bowels of the Earth. As the physical world wavered away like a dream, Hell spread before them, and angel and demon, arm-in-arm, descended together.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose with distaste as he set his feet down carefully. "Oh, really. I thought you were joking about the door-to-door salesmen."

"Paved them myself." And then, because it was just the two of them on the road to Hell, "Feel a bit guilty about it, really. Hi, Mark. Eh, how's it hanging?" He gave an apologetic little wave.

"I confess I'm all agog to see what Hell is like these days. What kind of horrors shall I expect? Lost souls roasted over an open fire? Or some of those quaint creatures dear Hieronymus liked to draw? I must admit to some curiosity about demonic orgies."

"I don't think you're taking this seriously enough," Crowley said, trying to sound stern. For all his radiance, Aziraphale managed to give the impression of a middle-aged Pomeranian being taken for a walk.

"On the contrary, I am taking it rather more seriously than you. For the sake of all that is merciful, Crowley, it occurs to me that I have been invited to Hell, but given no assurance of my safe return."

"Oh, fuck." Crowley would have blinked if he could. Instead he waved his hand, and a parchment appeared. He took out his favourite pen and, necessarily, licked the nib. "I, the demon--" He realised sharply that a demonic contract would require his True Name, and that Aziraphale was, technically, still the Enemy with a capital E and should not have his name written there. Then he looked into the familiar face, the lines of kindness around the eyes, and scribbled it down. "--assure safe passage to and from the City of Pandora for Aziraphale, Angel of the Ninth Choir of the Malachim, by all the Powers of Hell that lie within me. I will hold my eternal life and powers forfeit if I betray him on this visit, and condemn myself to eternal torture if he is restrained or if my hand ever rises against him."

"Without his consent."

"Without his-- _angel._ Context matters even in demonic contracts."

"Best to be sure." Aziraphale blinked innocently at him.

"Without his consent. There, that should do it. Um. You need to offer me something suitably valuable in return." He offered the pen, along with a hopeful smirk. "A couple of bottles of your 1968 Petrus red should do it."

"Perhaps when the world ends again," Aziraphale said serenely, and Crowley shrugged. Chances were he'd drink quite as much of it as Aziraphale did in the end. "What an ingenious pen." He added a few words to the contract and passed it back. "Will that do?"

Crowley stared at it. His hand would never do anything as gauche and deeply uncool as a shake. "Sure. Yeah. Fine. Should do. Wow."

Aziraphale patted his arm soothingly. "If you accept it, then go ahead and sign."

"Nnngh yeah." He signed with undignified haste. "You have to sign, too."

"My _dear_. This is hardly the first demonic contract I have handled on your behalf, although I usually leave the signatures to you." His signature was as fussy and neat as the rest of him. "There, that should do it."

"Urrrph."

"Crowley, please don't stare at me like a snake in headlights. It's making me nervous."

"And stepping into Hell doesn't?" Crowley stowed the parchment next to his skin, and it felt like it burned with the angelic signature.

"I'm by your side. I'm sure I shall be _quite_ safe," Aziraphale said blithely, and took his hand, rather than his arm. Crowley hung onto it as if he was the one being taken into Enemy territory, not his companion. Trust Aziraphale to kick the feet out from under him.

* * *

The sulphur smell wasn't as bad inside the banquet hall, although nowhere with six million demons was ever going to be a barrel of roses.

Crowley sighed and picked at his elderly boiled egg sandwich, trying to ignore the strains of _A Swinging Safari_ piped into his ear. The commendation for elevator music had not been worth it, not when he was trapped in conversation with Bathin. The Duke had decided that his serpent tail made them bosom pals, and was insisting on telling Crowley all about his horse.

Aziraphale... Aziraphale was worrying Crowley, and he didn't like being worried. In most situations he was supremely confident of Aziraphale's ability to avoid discorporation, book-selling or worse, but he couldn't help noticing the _kind_ of demons his angel currently had clustered around him. Amy, Phenix, Marchosias and Focalor had thought twelve centuries in Hell would serve out their sentences, and had been outraged when they didn't return to Heaven. At the time the general opinion was that their disappointment made them even more fierce in their hatred and resentment of the Host. But now they were clustered around Aziraphale, like moths around a particularly lustrous lamp.

The Dark Council were not going to like it. They didn't like anything much, but this was not particularly going to endear Aziraphale to them. Or, more pertinently, endear Crowley to them for bringing the angel there.

"Hi, Hastor, Ligur!" he called out, seizing on any source of distraction from Bathir's endless equine anecdotes. "You're both looking terribly well. Practically brimming with life. That's a relief to see."

He caught Hastur's puzzled look. "He talking about the maggots, or does he know something we don't know?"

Ligur gave Crowley a sharp, suspicious look, and Crowley smiled in satisfied malice. Always healthy to spread a little paranoia around. But his good mood didn't last, and as the music changed to _Canadian Sunset_ , his attention drifted back to Aziraphale.

Not that he could see the angel very well through the crowd of attentive upper-rank demons. There were Salios, Aim, Lerage, Sitri, Gremory, Seir and Shax. The most good-looking of the Infernal Aristocracy, and all hanging on Aziraphale's every elegant word. Crowley couldn't catch the words, but he was sure from the musical tones that Aziraphale was being _charming_. He hadn't been this charming since the seventeenth century. If he said "Oh, la, sir!" at any point, Crowley was going to... was going to...

"I thought you said he was _your_ angel."

Crowley nodded politely at the pillar of vaguely human-shaped water, as Bathin slipped off on his serpentine tail. Neither the Paperwork nor the Torments Departments were popular at parties. "Dagon. Hi. Good look on you. Thought I smelled fish. How's the Takeaway Bar at your old temple going? Heard there had been a bit of an incident."

"He doesn't seem particularly keen on your company, darling. I thought you said he was completely besotted with you and bowed to your every whim?"

Crowley shifted uneasily. "He's making contacts, Dagon. Trying to help me out. All part of the Arrangement."

"Good. Because you know what the penalty for being caught lying to a superior is."

"Having all my reports audited. Yeah, I know."

"Audited with _extreme prejudice._ " Dagon sloshed gently.

"Yeah, yeah. Look, I'm going to go talk to him now. And then... You'll see. All right? Right."

Crowley swayed as seductively across the room as a cobra, wishing he'd worn a nice sharp suit instead of leather. The banquet room's air conditioners were broken, and it was hard even for him to be properly beguiling with sweat running down between his buttocks.

"How's it going, angel?" he purred in his most seductive voice.

"Oh, hello, Crowley. Sitri here was just telling me of a most amusing trick he'd learned."

Sitri smiled at Crowley with his beautiful mouth and clapped his griffin wings. All of a sudden Crowley didn't need to worry about hot leathers anymore. There was a round of applause, giggles, and a lot of demons craning their neck to see how well endowed his current corporation was. Crowley caught the contract before it fell, and banished it back to his flat.

Aziraphale chuckled delightedly. "Have a seat, Crowley. I'm just catching up with some old friends. Why, I haven't had a chat with my dear Prince Seir since all that unfortunate business with the Rebellion."

Crowley's teeth sharpened despite himself. Seir was possibly the demon he least wanted Aziraphale getting all chummy with. Crowley was quite proud of his own corporation, now on display to one and all, but Seir was exquisite, a Prince of Hell to boot, and not, when you got down to it, one of the more evil demons. Not really evil at all. While Crowley officially disapproved of Aziraphale finding signs of good in him, he couldn't help wondering if meeting Seir would make Crowley himself seem... well. Less special. Possessiveness surged in him, and Wrath. That was part of the problem of being back down here. All the Sins lay closer to the surface, amplified by demonic energy.

He'd been there with Aziraphale since the beginning, he reminded himself. They'd faced the end of the world together. There was no way anyone could supplant that. And look at Aziraphale, cool and collected in the pits of Hell. There was no way he'd let a prat like Seir seduce him away from his friend, who had defied Hell by his side. Cool, Crowley, he reminded himself. Keep cool. Even bare-arsed at the worst buffet in history.

"The Fall is just water under the bridge, honey," Seir said fondly, tossing back his russet curls, and patting Aziraphale proprietorially on the knee. Crowley hissed, restraining the impulse to shift into serpent form and strike at his hand. "What was that, Crowley?"

"Nothing, your highness."

"Do have a drink, my sweet Aziraphale." _Mine_ snapped Crowley's hind-brain. He managed to restrain himself, trust Aziraphale and wait. Seir summoned a platter of the kind of extremely inadequate red wine Aziraphale would usually rather discorporate rather than tip into his pink mouth. It had melting ice cubes in it.

"Ah, you can't fool me," Aziraphale said archly. Bless him to heaven, he was being _arch_. "I know my legends. One hundred years in Hell for every sip?"

The little group of demons rippled with appreciative laughter. "Can't put one over you, old boy," Amy said fondly. "But then your pet snake would have warned you before he brought you."

Guilt hit Crowley like a truck. He had _meant_ to mention the food and drink thing to Aziraphale. He'd just been thrown off by the whole contract business. From the accusing stares being levelled on him, everyone else there, including Aziraphale, knew quite well he had forgotten, and was silently judging him for it. Overheated, worried, guilty, naked and extremely self-conscious, Crowley folded his arms, spread his wings and attempted to regain a properly chill attitude. He would _not_ cover his nether regions. He was a demon among demons after all, and it was nothing Aziraphale hadn't seen before, often at much more close-up range. He had never objected to the view. "Sorry to interrupt the reunion party. Dagon asked me to have a word with Aziraphale, that's all. _Paperwork,_ you know."

At the magic word, the most powerful word in all demon banishment, the group dispersed, leaving Aziraphale, his lips pursed and a warning line between his brows. "That was unnecessarily rude. I was only being polite to my hosts."

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Yes, I am, thank you." Aziraphale fiddled prissily with his gloves. "Did you bring me here intending me not to enjoy myself?"

Crowley glared in the general direction of the Great Duke Aim. " _I_ could have a human head _and_ a snake head at once too, if you're into that. You never said."

"And the head of a kitten as well?"

"Aim always was a bloody showoff." Crowley paused. "I can have bigger breasts than Gremory's too, if you prefer."

"My dear, really. Of course I will be supportive of any breasts you choose to manifest, but it's hardly necessary for my sake."

"Whose voice do you think is sexiest, Shax's or mine?"

" _Crowley._ You're not jealous?"

"You're _my_ angel." Crowley had always been particularly proud of the chocolate thickness of his voice when he was entrancing others. He had meant to interject a certain sensual, commanding possessiveness in it now. He was aghast to hear a certain petulance in it instead. Almost whining.

He could see Aziraphale open his mouth, ready to say something thoroughly bitchy, and then, to his surprise, Aziraphale's face softened, and those sometimes terrible blue eyes shone as softly as a spring sky. "Indubitably. And you are _my_ particular demon. And quite the most fetching one here. Come here, Crowley."

Crowley came gladly enough, sliding his arms around Aziraphale's neck and letting himself be pulled onto his lap. Let Dagon just see that. Thought he was _your_ angel, indeed. Aziraphale was entirely his.

"I look forward to reminding you of _just_ how irresistible I find you when we get home. Here is hardly the time or place." Aziraphale ran a graceful hand, gloved in silk, down Crowley's bare flank.

"Why not?"

"Do I really have to explain?"

"Maybe you do. Because you're here, I'm on your lap, and I'm naked. Seems like a good opportunity for a detailed explanation."

"My dear, I am in enemy territory, no matter how welcome they have made me, and surrounded by six million demons is hardly my idea of quality alone time." The hand, Crowley noticed with more than one kind of interest, had not removed itself. It was stroking gently over his hip and thigh, almost as if Aziraphale could not quite resist touching. The slide of the cool silk, angelic warmth behind it, was tantalising.

"You said you were curious about demonic orgies." That was better. That was his voice the way he liked it, low and thrilling and with just a tiny hint of a hiss.

Aziraphale shivered, but shook his head. "Absolutely not. Orgies are completely out of the question. This outfit was quite expensive, for a start."

"I bet it was. What made you decide to come down here dressed up as Beau Brummel?"

"You don't think it suits me?"

"I didn't say that." As a matter of fact, finery had always suited Aziraphale, no matter which corporation he wore. After all, he would explain, the Heavenly City was into somewhat ostentatious mother or pearl and gold in any case, so he was only reflecting the glory of his home. He had always been happier when "blending in" involved more jewellery than it did in the last century or two. And Crowley, for his part, was always happier when it involved Aziraphale in fine stockings.

"I suppose I wanted to make an impression. After all, didn't you bring me down here to make friends and contacts in case I finally meet some punishment for that whole Armageddon business and Fall?"

"What?" Crowley was genuinely taken aback. "No, of course not. If it had happened, it would have happened by now. It's not like they don't have enough to get you on if they wanted. You've been sinning since Eden."

"I prefer to think that I have not been sinning, I have been thoroughly exploring the charms and possibilities of the Lord's glorious creation," Aziraphale said, insufferably self-righteous and deserving of being taken down a peg, Crowley was certain of it, if only his closeness and hands weren't so blessedly distracting.

"Been ages since I was called that."

"I was thinking more of wine and food. But I suppose I can include you. You _are_ one of His Creations, you know."

"Angel, this is _not_ the place for you to be aggravating about theology, if you can help it," said Crowley, rather less firmly than he would have if Aziraphale's hand hadn't seemed intent on exploring the possibilities of the Lord's glorious creations as exemplified by a naked serpent demon. "Back on topic. Stop it with the charm offensive, it's dangerous with this lot, especially in a state of instability like they are."

"Ah. So it was you that rather than wanting me to make an impression, you wanted to use me to make your own impression." There was no questioning lilt at the end.

Guilt flooded Crowley, and he wished his shielding glasses hadn't vanished with the rest of his clothes. "Hnnh?

"I wonder what you could possibly have had in mind." That voice. Precise, elegant and queer as fuck in human terms. Made it all too easy to forget that there was a warrior behind the softness and the half-moon glasses and golden curls. A far more dangerous voice in terms of deception than Crowley's own velvet sibilants, if the demon was being entirely honest. Which, on principle, he generally wasn't. The serpent part of Crowley realised the danger, and wanted to rear back defensively or slither off, even as the human and corporeal part of him suggested getting as close as possible to the owner of that dangerous voice, press against it. A particular part of his corporation was embarrassingly evident about its keenness on the idea. Lust. The place was suffused with it. And Aziraphale, _his_ Aziraphale...

"You know. Good buffet. Well, not _good_ precisely, but..."

"Surely you weren't boasting about having made an angelic conquest and having a Principality under your thumb," Aziraphale said, pleasantly and conversationally, but pitched so only Crowley could hear. His hand drifted back and forth, exploring all kinds of interesting places. "You would never risk my dignity, our friendship and the Arrangement like that."

Crowley squirmed, out of guilt or the questing hand. "You _know_ I told them that we have a thing going on. Partnership between friendly enemies of sorts. And of _course_ they also assume we're fucking, look at me, the original Temptation and all."

"Oh. A partnership. And equal one, of course."

"Equal. Yeah. Sure." Crowley arched his back as gloved fingers cupped his balls and squeezed, almost too tight for pleasure.

"Do try and control yourself," Aziraphale said pettishly. "These clothes are very delicate, and I won't have you leaking all over them." He hooked a finger against the silken stretch of skin behind Crowley's balls.

"Ack! How the heaven am I supposed to not... nggggh."

"Self-control is a virtue, dear."

"Oh, you did NOT just tell a demon to display virtue in Hell." Crowley sniggered despite his growing physical distress. Aziraphale was looking at him in that dangerous way, and he could tell that most of the demons in the hall were staring at them, and the knowledge that they could see him, the snake sent up to Earth, naked and being fondled on the lap of an angel was... Well, he liked it more than he wanted to admit.

"I'm sure you can control yourself for me, my love. To make this up for me." Aziraphale's fingers were back further now, circling his entrance in an unlubricated dry drag that was terrible and horrible, that was exquisite... "I wonder that you didn't ask me to show up in a collar and lead."

"Would you have enjoyed that?"

"Impertinence." Aziraphale smirked at him.

Crowley was, somewhere in the loop of guilt and lust and worry he was caught up in, just aware enough to make a desperate move and gather up the beading fluid on the head of his cock, so as not to splatter Aziraphale's clothes. He wondered again if he should explain the situation. Probably a bad idea with a _lot_ of demons watching them. It was embarrassing, anyway. It had seemed so easy. Lead him around by the hand a bit, show him off, flirt with him openly, stay chilled and sharp himself. And somehow he had ended up in this position. Stark naked, cock bumping gently against his own toned belly, and Aziraphale fully dressed and feeling him up. Well, that was fine, he told himself. He could prove himself sexually irresistible to the angel, and Satan-who-was knew, _that_ wasn't much of a challenge. He was halfway there already. If Aziraphale was game enough to go this far in public...

The strains of _Calcutta_ played over Hell's ancient stereo system, oddly encouraging. He wondered if long association with him had meant Aziraphale, who in theory couldn't feel Sin, was less impervious to the atmosphere than he pretended. he was being very forward. And sometimes around Aziraphale, Crowley suspected he was developing the ability to sense--nope. Not going there.

"If you don't want to get messed up, I can think of a good place for the mess to go," he husked, caressing Aziraphale's lower lip with his thumb.

Aziraphale managed to look morally outraged, even as he was playing with Crowley's entrance, and even though there was a glint in his eyes at the thought. "I am hardly going to perform an act of fellatio on you in the depths of Hell, my dear."

"You're hardly... _Hey!_ Why aren't you in a similar state?" Crowley's hand slipping down had met only softness.

"Angelic self-control."

"Angelic malicious blow to my ego in front of my workmates," Crowley muttered, trying to control his sudden fear. "God knows why I..."

"I'm sure He does."

"Oh, shut up. I told you, I'm not talking theology right now." He decided to risk it, and put them in a silent bubble. He couldn't maintain it for very long without anyone noticing, but a few seconds should be enough. "Look, Aziraphale, I am sorry to ask it of you, but can we put on a show? I'll make it up to you. I'll do every blessing and manifestation and miracle you want for months... years. As long as you show them all that you want me."

"It's important to you, isn't it." An echo of before, and not really a question.

"Should be important to you too, if you don't want to lose me to Hell," he admitted, wincing.

"Oh, dear, whatever have you done? Well, I certainly want you to fulfil your side of the contract, and that rather requires you to be on Earth,"

"All right."

"All right? Easy as that?"

The wicked glint in Aziraphale's eyes sparkled even deeper. "Well, I have to admit the idea of having a demon helpless in my arms in front of Hell is rather appealing. Staking my claim to you, as it were."

Alarm bells rang out. "Aziraphale, that was not exactly what I had in mind. In fact..."

Before he could explain further, the bubble of silence had vanished in a pop and Crowley was being kissed. Thoroughly, deeply, passionately kissed. He could feel his teeth sharpen, that soft angelic tongue sliding over the points, _knowing_ he wouldn't let himself hurt Aziraphale, that all his power was focused on not cutting him. Dangerous and safe all at once, Aziraphale had said, once. A lovely venomous snake harmless in his arms, as long as the snake chooses to be. Damnit--bless it-- he could...

Thank everything that demons could only sense sin. There was a lot of lust to sense. From around the banquet hall, from Crowley, but most specifically, from Aziraphale himself. It was better than wine. They didn't have the ability to sense the... other thing.

Crowley could feel and hear the whispers and titters and--yes, that was Asmodeus cheering them on. Bastards. He told himself he was not excited by it, by the upper management of hell watching him making love with an angel and oh Satan it probably wasn't safe to even _think_ the words "making love". Fucking. Fornicating. Look, guys, look how into me the angel is, he can't keep his hands off me, he'd do anything for me, thought I had lost my tempting ability and gone soft, eh? Just watch. I'm going to fuck his pretty brains out...

He recognised too late that the gathering heat and tightness was too much, and it was only when he was coming untouched all over Aziraphale's beautiful clothes that he realised he had lost control completely. Too late to pull it back, too late to do anything but hiss as his cock jerked and he spurted again and again.

Oh fuck. He could hear the sniggers starting. One kiss, and he was ejaculating like a human kid.

"Oh, you wicked thing," Aziraphale said softly, but with angelic force behind him that resonated around the room over all the infernal voices. "Bringing me here, seducing me, soiling, marking me as yours while giving me no pleasure. Not even touching me once. _Filthy._ " Only Crowley could see the kindness in his eyes, the loyalty. Humiliating himself in front of his enemies to save Crowley's pride and scaly hide. "Why did I let myself be degraded like this?"

"Because it's me, angel," he said in a voice more serpent than human. "Because you're mine and you'd do anything for me. Wouldn't you? You would crawl on your hands and knees for me, you would let every demon in this room take you if I wished it."

"Oh dear me," said Aziraphale, not entirely convincingly. "You wouldn't ask that of me, would you, darling?" His expression suggested that if Crowley even suggested anything of the sort, he would be suffering for it a very. very long time, but his voice quavered theatrically. "I only want to be yours."

"You'd do it for me, though, wouldn't you, angel? Even if you begged not to, if I insisted..."

There was a flicker of a glare, warning him not to push it and that if there was any begging to be done it wouldn't come from Aziraphale, but the angel nodded obediently. "As long as I'm still yours. Crowley..."

"Don't worry, poppet." Crowley caressed his curls, kissed his forehead, and was supremely grateful that Bodies and Chassises had forgotten to fit his model with a refractory period. Good old Hellish lack of attention to detail. He was already hard again, at least partly at the thought of Aziraphale begging to be his. "You're _mine,_ my pretty possession, and I don't share my toys. You've been very good. Time for a reward." He waved his fingers in a complicated gesture, and the mess of demonic semen vanished before it could eat into Aziraphale's clothes, which it had an unfortunate tendency to do if left. "What would you like?"

"To please you." What an absolute trooper.

"You always please me, darling." Oh, this was _fun_. He could feel thousands of eyes on him, and the building Sin. Lust, still, but Envy. The desperate, angry envy that he, flashy, underappreciated Crowley, was the one to seduce a bona-fide, unfallen angel. The awareness of the resentment and sick covetousness filled his blood like fire, sent scales blooming on his neck, on his spine, down his arms. His wings spread wider, fluttering out behind him, half shielding Aziraphale from view. Take that, you bastards, you can't even look, he's _mine._ Mine since Eden. Mine since he first stroked a hand along my coils. Mine since I first looked into his eyes... brown back then, brown like Adam and Eve's, but beautiful no matter the colour. Mine...

"Oh, you beautiful thing," breathed Aziraphale, running a gloved finger down his neck, caressing the scales. Then, apparently remembering what they were aiming for, he said, "You diabolical creature, so wicked, so lovely. How could I resist?" He followed his fingers with his lips, sucking and biting softly at the too-sensitive scales, and Crowley threw his head back, letting the hiss come out, long and non-human and triumphant. Then his hands were on Aziraphale's damn pretentious lace cravat, fiddling with the suddenly very complicated platinum tie pin, to reveal soft angelic skin, rich and coppery, so that he almost expected the tang of metal or the bite of electricity when he licked it. But there was only skin softer than any silk, warmer, more alive than any of these demons with their non-human bodies could ever understand. The precious flutter of a pulse, the life of blood through veins and arteries, that brought air and nutrients and healing, that hardened his cock--and oh, yes, Aziraphale was letting that happen now, Crowley realised, instinctively grinding against it--and sharpened his feelings. No wonder they used blood in all their rituals, but they never understood it, never _tried_ to understand what it felt like to have blood pounding in your temples and your genitals, to feel gloriously, Earthly _alive_...

He kissed along the exposed collarbone, flicked his divided tongue at the precious dip between it, gently took the curve of one where it pressed against Aziraphale's skin in his fangs and bit just a little, enough to give a sharpening pang to his desire, not enough to break the skin. _I'll never hurt you_ he promised as he bit bruises into the skin. _You're safe here, even the in the bowels of Hell, with me... Oh, my Aziraphale._ He knew Aziraphale couldn't hear the words, but he could sense them, as readily as Crowley sensed the lust boiling out from his angel.

"Tell me what I can do for you." Aziraphale's voice was broken. Crowley wasn't even sure it was acting anymore. Aziraphale did so love to have his sensitive neck played with, did so much like to be bitten.

He thought, for that moment, of asking Aziraphale to get on his knees before him to suck him deep, swallow him down. Or climb on hands and knees and spread himself, open himself to Crowley's tongue, submit to being fucked like that. But something in him rebelled. That would expose entirely too much of Aziraphale to the audience. It wasn't as if they hadn't done it a thousand times, but here, in front of someone like Dagon or Berith, it would seem to them like a degradation, and Crowley's heart turned over at the thought. They _would_ respect Aziraphale, like the beautiful creature he was.

"Service me," he said instead. "Pleasure me. Show me what that pretty, angelic cock of yours is for." He fumbled with the buttons at Aziraphale's crotch, such tiny precious things, made from shells, pulled him loose. Oh, no magical repression now, Aziraphale was like his own gloves only silkier and over iron. Crowley wanted to kneel before him, wanted to taste and adore. Wanted everything.

He pulled one of Aziraphale's hands from the glove, guided it to Aziraphale's own mouth. "Make it wet."

That _tongue_. Hot and wet, and why should such a simple thing feel so wonderful? These corporations. So much mystery to them... And oh, Aziraphale, that utterly _respectable_ face with the lips wrapped around a demon's scaly fingers, decadent and obedient, his golden eyelashes fluttering beautifully. That nice man who owned the bookshop, that Principality of heaven, sucking on a naked demon's fingers while his gorgeous cock, flushed with blood, bobbed...

Aziraphale took his hand from his mouth, whispered "Steady, now," and moved it to probe Crowley's entrance. Far slicker than human saliva would account for, naughty angel, pulling off holy magic in Hell, but it wouldn't show up against the general atmosphere of profane magic, Crowley hoped. His hypersensitive body registered the edge of each beautifully manicured nail, each hard knuckle in the soft plump fingers, deeper and deeper, spreading oil as Crowley squirmed despite all his efforts at self-control.. Aziraphale always took such care over his comfort, punctilious and thorough, even when he pushed Crowley face-first against the bookshelves in an access of passion, or took him on burning desert sand. Fuck, he was going to _ruin_ Aziraphale's clothes. Maybe he'd get scolded. Maybe...

Two hands, one gloved and one not, wrapped around his hips, lifted him, and eased him down. Slowly, too slowly, a long, agonizing slide. He hoped no one behind him could see just how controlled he felt. Aziraphale's grip was like rocks on his hips, digging in He would be bruised... but It was so tender, so reverent as well.

He could hear the hisses and murmurs from behind him, and spread his wings. Shutting them out. It was just them. His Aziraphale, immaculate in white satin, hair and skin glowing, the intense expression on his face, and that hard, relentless cock pulsing inside of him, splitting him open. Would he ever get used to it? An angel, holy and beautiful and _his_ , breaching the boundaries of his body.

"Is that sufficient, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, voice both loud and adoring for the crowd, but his gaze firm and reassuring and hot, hotter than hellfire. "Does my cock please you?"

Oh, no. It was like nothing Aziraphale ever said, but for some reason it made his own cock twitch, leaking clear beads of fluid. he was _not_ going to come in a few seconds this time.

"Not bad," he huffed. "Show them all what a precious prize you are, darling. My most prized possession. Show what you can do for me."

 _Darling_ , Aziraphale mouthed back, and for a moment Crowley mistook it for an endearment, before he realised it was a warning, that the word had slipped out without his knowledge. Then Aziraphale's hands tightened on his hips and there was no space or energy to think at all, just thrusting down, stretched and pulled, hisses pulled out of him every time Aziraphale accurately pushed against the right spot. Aziraphale's hand--his _gloved_ hand, oh fuck--wrapped itself around his cock, and it should have been awful really, dry cold fabric, but somehow it was perfect, it was beautiful, pumping as he was fucked, and the lust and envy in the room was like a drug. He reached around and clutched at the base of Aziraphale's wings for support and gave in, letting his hips rock as they would, aware of the filthy marks he was making on Aziraphale's beautiful clothes again, as if he could ever soil him, as if purity like Aziraphale's could ever truly be soiled by little sins, by desire, by love...

"Let me come, Crowley," Aziraphale begged for the sake of the room, and for Crowley, he whispered, "Ready, my love?"

"Mine," Crowley snarled, and let himself loose in deep hisses, grinding himself desperately down as he climaxed, Aziraphale's cock as deep inside as he could take it. Aziraphale lowered his head and bit his shoulder as he came, too.

There was a round of applause, but Crowley barely heard it. Aziraphale was his, had shown he was his, had been his _in Hell._ What had he ever done to deserve love like that?

He was crying. Tears streaming down his face. Aziraphale, his Aziraphale, his love burning so bright in the loveless depths of Hell that what remained of Crowley's angelic nature remembered how to sense it. Loving _him._ For everything he was, good or bad. And the piped elevator music was reflecting his emotions. Why were humans so clever? Even in an instrumental, he could _hear_ the lyrics of the song being played. Paul McCartney was a fucking genius. _Eight days a week are not enough to show I care..._ It was so damn beautiful. Aziraphale was so damn beautiful. Everything was so damn beautiful.

"Oh my dear, my dear," Aziraphale said, all his own attempts at playing a virtuous angel seduced against his will melting away. "Don't cry, darling serpent. It's all right. I'm here."

"Not crying." Just a perfectly normal physical reaction to orgasm. Crowley certainly wasn't on the point of mouthing desperately along with the instrumental, _Hope you need my love, babe, just like I need you._

"Of course not." Aziraphale kissed him, and Crowley eagerly responded, until a throat was cleared behind him and he pulled sharply back. "Oh," Aziraphale said, in tones of bright horror, "I know you, evil fiend. Look at you pretending to be soft and lovable to entrance my heart. Don't you know I am at the whim of your sexy wiles even without a pretense at affection?"

"Very interesting," said Berith, standing next to a grinning Dagon. "A very impressive performance indeed."

"Oh, Prince Berith, I'm so ashamed that you have seen my degradation!" twittered Aziraphale, but his heart clearly wasn't in it. They were too obviously nabbed.

"My gratitude for attending our little get-together, Principality," Berith said, showing his teeth. "I hope this will be a new stage in relations between our great and powerful Kingdoms. For now, however, I hope you will not take it amiss if I speak to Crowley privately for a while."

"Ah, no, of course not. Ah, how long will you need him?"

"Oh. A few decades will do, I'm sure."

"Oh dear." Aziraphale reached out an elegant hand and shook Berith's. "I would appreciate him returned to me sooner. As a gesture of goodwill. Say we say, tomorrow?"

"Of course. As a gesture of goodwill. I don't guarantee how many parts he returns in, though."

"Oh, really? I'm quite attached to this corporation. One of his better ones. Particularly well-shaped around the calves."

To Crowley's terrified astonishment, Berith smiled again. Not a menacing smile. An indulgent one. What _was_ Aziraphale's power over demons? If Heaven had more like him, the War was a joke. "I'll consider it. Pleasure to meet you, Aziraphale. I hope to see you again soon. Crowley... with me."

Naked, frightened, tear-drenched, sticky and thoroughly sore in the behind, Crowley trailed after his new boss, trying to hold the memory of Aziraphale's reassuring smile in his blackened heart. At least the contract was safe.

* * *

"So, how bad was it?"

Crowley, who had been waiting for his arrival lying on the floor of his flat trying to distract himself, and edify his plants, with a radio program on plant disease, lifted his head and hissed.

"Oh, do change back into a form I can understand," said Aziraphale. Crowley suspected he was lying and could understand him quite well in snake form. He had in the past. Nonetheless, he obediently transformed, but remained curled on the floor.

"Citation for letting an angel tempt me into soft emotions. Extra duties and performance reviews _every decade_ until I show a distinct improvement."

"Oh, dear. Well, that's not so bad. I can help you. All in the name of our little Arrangement, of course, and out of the kindness and beneficence of my angelic heart."

"I'm not sure you can swing doing Hell's work to being angelic, angel," Crowley said, amused despite himself. "Oh, and my pay is cut badly. Will have to sponge off you on our next thousand dinner dates."

"As if you don't have a fortune in stocks in dubious companies," Aziraphale said. To Crowley's surprise, Aziraphale settled on the floor beside him, and Crowley felt a hand absently card through his hair. Soothing. Oh, fuck Hell. What did any of them know? Fat chance they ever got to lie on the floor while an angel petted their hair. If they had, they wouldn't be so damn superior about... about...

"I love you too, you know," Aziraphale said, very quietly.

"Ha." Crowley's mouth twitched despite itself, and he was glad that no imp photographer could sneak into his flat, because he suspected that his expression was very like the one he had on the beach. "What's with this _too_? What would a cool demon like me see in a stuffy, acid-tongued bookseller?"

"I have no idea."

The words hung in the air, sad and distant and all wrong. "No. No no no. You cut that out. You're plenty--you're fine, okay? Seriously, these last few thousand years wouldn't have been bearable without you. They wouldn't have been _fun_. They wouldn't... you're fine, okay?" His words stumbled over each other. "Wouldn't--wouldn't do without you." He rolled over and caught Aziraphale's hand in his, pressing it against his mouth.

"That's very nice of you to say."

"Not nice. Greedy selfish bastard who knows a bad thing when he sees it and makes sure it belongs to him. Avarice."

Aziraphale's hand tightened on his, and they sat there together, listening to a detailed description of plant disease. The leaves of the plants around them shivered in a nonexistent breeze. "My offer," Aziraphale said at last.

"Signed it, didn't we? You're not backing out on it now."

"You really want it? You don't need to, you know. I only promised to make the offer; there was no encumbrance on you to accept it."

"We were heading that way anyway. Might as well make it official," Crowley said, as casually as he could. Aziraphale continued to watch him, quiet and perhaps a little hurt, so he added, "Yeah, yeah, I really want it. More than anything. You're mine, see? I know I made a bit of a fool of myself trying to prove it to my workmates, but you _are_ mine. Aren't you?"

"All my heart and all my love, my treasure."

"Besides, it's not every day you get offered an angel's hand in marriage. Would be far too virtuous to turn it down. No, you're stuck with a try-hard git like me." He couldn't remember the last time something like that had come out of his mouth. Being human was _hard_ , and he didn't always get it right, but he didn't usually admit to falling anywhere short of the mark of Coolest and Most Handsome Human Shaped Being Ever. Still, it wasn't like Aziraphale would judge him for it. Aziraphale wouldn't recognise Cool if he was shut in a refrigerator.

"Whatever will I do, stuck with you?" Aziraphale stroked the hair off his forehead. "But, dear heart, are you mine?"

"Always have been. Wouldn't hang around an angel so much if not. But for Heaven's sake, don't make me say so again." He watched Aziraphale's eyebrows rise. "Oh, all right. Once. On our wedding day. I suppose."

"Thank you."

Crowley slithered across until his head was cradled in Aziraphale's abundant lap. Like basking in the sun. Poor sodding bastards in Hell. All caught up with their pettifogging power-plays, heads stuck in the times preCreation. No understanding at all of what it was like to have a delicious meal, a lazy nap, a well-cut suit. Walking the Earth, when they bothered at all, only with thoughts of destruction. Using pleasure only as a means to downfall. And Aziraphale's lot, too. Talked a lot about Love, but he was sure they had never stroked the hair of a lover like Aziraphale was doing.

Sad losers. Only Aziraphale understood what it was to be both immortal and, on some levels, very human indeed.

"I'm forgiven, then?" Aziraphale asked, very quietly. "If I'd realised I was putting you in real danger..."

"Was never pissed off with you in the first place. If you didn't have a wicked streak, you'd be Hanael or someone, and I refuse to fuck them, let alone marry them." He tried to say it casually, but that damned forked tongue got in his way.

"Oh, good. About not being angry, I mean, not your obscene and blasphemous suggestion about someone who i would like to remind you is my senior angel. Because I have a favour to ask you."

"Anything. Want me to bite a customer? Bless a pregnant mum for you? Could be a wedding gift."

There was silence. That was suspicious. Almost as if Aziraphale was girding himself up to ask something he knew Crowley would not like. Crowley opened an eye and stared up at him. Aziraphale's skin looked pinker and less coppery than usual, and his eyes darted away nervously.

"Spit it out, Aziraphale."

"Well. They are officially pretending it didn't happen, but naturally the whole business with young Adam and his friends must have caused quite a stir. I suspect there was some interest in how I managed to convince my own Adversary, an old and wily demon from the beginning of the world, to rebel against Hell and oppose Satan's plans. Possibly."

"Angel, please tell me you aren't saying what I think you're saying."

"I'm certain you made quite an impression. After all, the Metatron practically met you, even if you weren't formally introduced, and I've always said you look _quite_ dashing. Even smoking like you'd come straight from Hell itself. Might even had added to your cachet."

"Angel, no. You didn't."

"I must admit I was surprised by Hell's taste in music, by the way, although in another, I wasn't surprised at all." Aziraphale shuddered fastidiously. "Next time you claim Hell has all the best composers, I will remind you about _The Lady in Red_ played by a string orchestra. Easy Listening, my foot. It was very difficult to listen to indeed."

"Don't change the subject. What did you do?"

"It seems I am in line for a commendation for bringing love and the hope of redemption to the darkest of souls. Either that, or I get rather a sharp slap on the wrist for deception. Hadn't you better be getting up and putting something decent on? That suit makes you look like a used car salesman."

"The only car I'm interested in is the Bentley, the only one who uses it is me, and I have no intention of selling it. I'll have you known this suit is a cashmere Brioni. Feel the fabric, it feels like... well, heaven, excuse my French."

"Custom-tailored at your own expense, of course."

"Well, no. I conjured it. You know that perfectly well. Why encourage the humans by paying for things?"

Aziraphale sniffed. "It's a knock-off, then."

"Aziraphale..."

"I'm not having you attending our own wedding in Heaven wearing a _knock-off suit_. Do go put something decent on, there's a dear boy. Chop-chop, we only have an hour."

" _Aziraphale,_ " Crowley growled, and sat up. There was an expression in Aziraphale's eyes that... "Oh, Aziraphale," he said, and gave him a kiss. "If you want me to marry you in front of the whole bloody Host, I suppose I did say I'd do anything for you. Practically an unbreakable demonic contract. Miracle you to Harrods?"

"Harrods? Oh, really, dear, I do have some standards. Given we're short on time, I suppose Harvey Nichols will have to do. Even if it's..." Aziraphale shuddered. "Prêt-à-porter."

"You are a disgusting snob, you know that, angel? Blessed be the humble, remember?"

"I have no intention of inheriting the Earth. For good or ill, it belongs to the humans. Enjoying it is good enough." He beamed fondly at Crowley, helping him to his feet. "Besides, I already have the most important thing in the world."

"Your bookshop."

" _Crowley_. Honestly, why I even try to be romantic...."

"You say that, but if we were on a sinking ship and you had to choose between me and the last edition of Mother Shipton's prophecies, I'd better remember how to swim."

"Don't be silly, dear. You're perfectly capable of miracling yourself out of danger. The books, on the other hand..."

Bickering gently, hand-in-hand, angel and demon went to buy a wedding suit and face Aziraphale's coworkers and superiors.

How bad could it be?


End file.
